


Rocks and Water

by ArkHive



Category: Inception (2010), Lawless (2012)
Genre: Arthur is the driving force here, Floyd Banner is kinda Arthur's step dad, Hero Worship, M/M, fanboy!Arthur crushing so hard on Forrest, grumpy-winnie-pooh!forrest as we know him, he's the best!, it's a longer story okay?, more hero worship, underage!Arthur, virgin!Forrest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArkHive/pseuds/ArkHive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Floyd is dating Arthur's mum since he's 8. With 9, Arthur starts crushing on Forrest. With 15, he accidently gets a job in the Bondurants station and nothing will be ever like it used to be. For both. </p><p>or</p><p>The one where Arthur is hero worshipping the Bondurants, becomes part of their family and slowly builds himself a comfy little spot within grumpy old virgin!forrests heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. # 01

**Author's Note:**

> I started this at some point last year in winter. And I continued it ever since with all thsoe little snippets of Arthur an Forrest.  
> I'll upload it bit by bit at AO3.
> 
> Warning>> Un-betaed!! all mistakes are mine, sorry...

 

He was the known order.

He was the outspoken law.

He was the silent executor.

He was so near. So very, very near. Every week with every new delivery, but never near enough to really _see_.

Floyd Banner won’t let him. He was still a rookie. Even after one year still the grasshopper in the Moonshine cooperative. But he was good. He really was. It was all about his age. It must’ve been. It slowly drove him mad.

He was forced to see crooks come by and getting taken along to collect the moonshine in their second week, but not him. Never him. He has to stay in the main quarter.

_Take it easy, kid. You’re missing out on nothing._  Floyd would say.

_I’ve more important tasks for you._ Floyd would say.

But it’s just not that. It’s not about importance.

It’s about _him_.

The man with the rare words. His voice rough and husky from the poor use.

The man with the unreadable face. His eyes hidden under the hats shadow and still glimmering dangerous from the dark.

The man with the distinct walk. His weight inconspicuous and earth shaking at the same time.

He wants to see him. _Needs_ to see him. Maybe he could get close enough to feel if he’s cold or radiating heat. Either way he bet it would burn to touch him.

Would it leave a mark?

He was the lost mother.

He was the collective guide.

He was the belting will.

He was a Bondurant and all Arthur was, was a kid.

 

 

______

 

 

Around here you grow up with lots of legends. _Real_ legends, no made up fancy fairy tales.

And if you’re lucky you still see them alive.

Acting.

Striking.

Growing.

Surviving.

Often he had stared in awe at Floyd when he told him stories while waiting for Arthurs mum to get ready. Not just a few had been about the Bondurant brothers and how they are unbeatable. Even invincible.  

Floyd had told him about how especially their middle brother had proofed those rumours true over and over again. He had gotten beaten up, run over, shot, slit open and strangled, and yet he still stood and walked around like nothing could bother him.

They were supposed to be like animals. Harmless from the distance, deadly from the near.

Arthur believed it true. All of it.

Those men couldn’t be harmed.

Why should Floyd lie to him? Floyd had always been good to his family.

_When I’m big, I wanna be a Bondurant too!_ Arthur had said once and meant it with all his heart.

Floyd had only laughed at him, oddly fond how he often got with him, and tousled through his black hair.

_A fine wish kid, but I’m afraid that won’t do. Why not become a Banner?_

If he was honest with himself, he had felt like a Banner for a long time already. Floyd was the closest thing to a dad he ever had. In his mind he had traded the Constantine name ages ago.

Yet still he went along with the game. Knows Floyd likes to play with him and test him.

_You do know the Bondurants, right?_

_Sure thing._

Arthur nodded, made a face like he would calculate the facts. But there was nothing to calculate. Everything was written in stone already and he maybe would thank god for it if his mama had managed to slap more belief in him.

_Would I help you?_

_You’d be certainly not just pretty decoration._

No, he wouldn’t be. He liked that about Floyd- When you work for him, you work. He was strict and neat and kept the business running. Arthur didn’t need to be a grown up to understand this.

_Can I start tomorrow?_

Floyd was laughing again.

_Maybe tomorrow in four years, son._

 

 

_____

 

 

Sunday.

Deep, humming choirs echoed along the street together with the clapping rhythm.

He never had been a particularly believing man (boy), but he liked the strange melodies that left the church’s wooden halls.

It seemed to be full of purpose and force.

Unstoppable and yet protecting.

What was a day off for most towner, was a regular day for the Moonshine cooperative.

Liquors always needed to be delivered.

New rumors to be traded.

Money to be exchanged.

Proposals to be offered.

Threats to be spoken.

 

Arthur leant back in the cars seat while waiting for Floyd to come back. To drive him to his next destination. Some cavern further down the road and nearer to the black quarters.

It was hot and the air was moist. It wasn’t time for the rain yet. The summer still lay warm and protecting over them (despite the occasional fire). It really was no weather to wear suits but this was the way it was with Floyd. And while he sat and waited and sweat into the soft grey linen, he wished for a second or two that he was eight again and not fifteen so he could run around in nothing but his underpants and bath in the nearby river all day long. Maybe catching some fish for dinner.

 

Then he heard the sound of rattling glass accompanied by a well known cracking motor.

His pulse jumped.

It was nothing more than mere seconds, but they felt like a lifetime within the lazy hotness. Suddenly barely bearable anymore.

_He_ was there.

Right next to him.

Near enough to touch if he would dare reaching out with his hand.

He’s sitting in the passenger-seat, a cigar smoldering between his plump lips and the hat as always pulled deep into his face. His stare was calm, unimpressed, yet strictly directed at the road. Like he was ready for everything that may or may not come. Always on the edge between the silent, secret pond and the raging, deadly sea.

His hand itched, twitched. It’s only one lift, a few inches upwards.

The choir rose up. Their voices thundering in a heart clenching rhythm along the streets.

_Within the darkness of this heart  
Other gods would vie for my affections_

 

A thunder in Arthurs ears. More sweat broke out. His heart hammering in an impossible double pace. __  
  


_But Thou art exalted_  
Thou art exalted  
Thou art exalted far above all gods!

 

And suddenly he could feel rusty metal striving along his finger tips.

Roughing up the used skin.

A foreign heat started to spread out from his fingers, crawling up his arm in the same rhythm the choir beats.

 

  _Thou knowest I love thee, dearest Lord,  
But O, I long to soar_

 

He forgot how to breathe.

The air trapped in his lunges, making his chest even tighter.

The clenching feeling in it even more pressing.

 

_Far from the sphere of mortal joys,  
And learn to love thee more!_

 

Concentrated eyes lowered for a soft blink. Like he listened to the choir too. Like a quiet agreement. 

And then-

He was gone again.

Metal passed him and stopped brushing his fingers.

When he turned around- just a bit, just to maybe get a second and last glimpse- he could see the oldest crooked over the hidden liquid treasure, one glass half empty in his hand and the uneasy disquietingly eyes fixed on him.

 

_And learn to love thee more!_

 

Arthur fell back into the damp seat. Only now gasping in a shivering breath of air.

He felt sweat dripping into his eyes and wiped it away weakly.

The second movement went to his hair and brushing over it. Just an old habit. A tick he shared with so many other boys.

A next song was about to rose up to its full power, but he still heard the good tempered

_Catch!_

Under it.

In time his hand went from his hair to grip for the flying bottle. Cherry soda. Already comforting cooling at his skin.

_You know our next destination?_

_Yes sir._

It was Sunday and Moonshiners were all but diligent to please the need of the thirsty citizens.

 

 

 

_____

 

Sometimes Arthur wondered if he was lonely.

Not all the time of course, but at nights. When he was the only one left in the station. When the wind rattled through the old wood and the standing by trees.

Of course his brothers were always nearby in the little huts around the station. Sleeping their own exhaustion and more often than not, their alcohol rush off. 

Arthur wondered how his room would look like.

If it was like the rest of the station or more… intimate.

If it would show more of how this man ticked. Functioned. Lived.

He never saw him drinking, so maybe he did it up there in his room?

Alone?

… No. That would mean he’s unhappy, but that wasn’t the case. At all.

He wasn’t unhappy.

He was comfortable.

Everything was good as it was.

Neat and in order.

Arthur didn’t want to intrude his perfect world.

Crack it with his inappropriate wishes.

His silly needs.

His boyish longings.

 

Cricket said he’s a nice man. A good man.

He said they could need help in the station. At the bar. Around the house. Stuff Cricket couldn’t do.

He said he could go asking.

_Hell, when they took ah boy like me why should they refuse you? You even knowin’ the business! Workin’ with Floyd fucking Banner!_ He slurred in his usual thick vowels and the spark of admiration Arthur noticed quite often flared up again.

Cricket was right.

Arthur needed to finally get over with it.

Sort himself out.

Get back to reality.

A reality in which there was no space for childish encomiums (Don’t think crush. It’s not. _It-is-not._ )

His ma definitely won’t be happy with him working double. Working away from Floyd.

Whereas Floyd… He had the feeling he would appreciate it. Foremost because he would have one of his own around the Bondurants, outside of their business.

He knew how Floyd thinks. He’s not especially suspicious. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just a neat businessman that liked to plan ahead and was always interested in keeping the company running and the money flowing.

_An’ if they don’ wanna have you around the station, there’s always the hut. I’m sure Jack won’t mind some help._

Arthur had never distilled himself. Had not even watched it. It sounded interesting and challenging, but then again he’s working for a guy whose main business was to get the alcohol cheap and sell it expensive.

It didn’t seem particularly clever to potentially put himself between two chairs. The station might be okay but the distillery....

_I dunno man. Thanks for the offer, but I think I pass that one._

It’s not the potential trouble he could get into that he feared. It was the trouble he might bring onto _him_ that he shied away from.

It’s better when he didn’t know where they distilled their moonshine.

_Sure. Maybe still come by later? At the station I mean._

The mere thought to go to the station, alone, and be _so near_. Be in the same room. Be able to watch. To _talk_. Ha. And there he forgot how to breathe again.

Floyd would laugh at him like he did when he was still a kid. Partly out of amused fondness but mostly about his ridiculous toddler behaviour.

Legends around here were real.

Meeting your heroes possible.

He should be more relaxed, really.

But he wasn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not after he had witnessed how unfeigned Floyd’s stories were.

_Maybe._ Arthur replayed and flipped the cigarette to the ground.


	2. # 02

 

 

The sun sank slowly, drowned the grassy hills and messy trees in a warm orange.

It was almost time to go home.

Dinner would be ready soon.

Cricket was long gone, wanted to meet up with Jack somewhere. Without Arthur. He wasn’t allowed to come along yet. As always he was too young. Always the kid. The baby boy.  

But just three more years and he would be thirteen.

Three more years and Floyd would take him into the company- he had said so!

Arthur trusted him.

And till then he would keep waiting.

Simply would have his own discoveries.

His own adventures.

His own missions.

Floyd said he should be glad being still a kid. Still having the freedom of no responsibility and the soft blanket of safety. Well, safe was a relative word nowadays but he was for sure safer then Floyd and his men.

 

Dark eyes wandered over the wild landscape. Took in the colourful, untamed scenery.

Late summer always smelled the best. When the earthy musk of autumn already lingered in the air but hadn’t broken out fully yet.

Everything was warm and rich and just so alive.

The grass was partly higher than him.  At some spots so tangled up he couldn’t get through it. Not without his mums big kitchen knife he sometimes sneaked away.

Crickets were chirping loudly and from somewhere in the east where the river ran, he could actually hear frogs quaking.

Arthur took a deep breath. A little ritual before he turned for his slow walk home.

It wasn’t too far. At the edge of the town, right where the wildness began.

There was no direct path through the hills.

He was careful not to leave one either.

No need to lead curious people up here.

If you grew up here, you just knew how to follow your nose. Knew which tree was a signal you’re too far north and what bush meant turn left here.

A jumping cricket crossed his way. It looked huge! And its green body so much more intensive than the half sun burned grass around him.

Tomorrow he should bring a jar. Catch himself one of those littler hoppers. Maybe he would give it to Floyd. He had read that people in Asia kept them as lucky charm.

 

A gurgling noise interrupted his thought trail.

Or more like a grunting.

Followed by a frustrated sounding groan.

Arthur followed the damped voice up the hill, past the widows and scrubs, till he saw its source.

It was a man.

A big man.

Hanging down an abyss between two hills.

The only thing that kept him from falling was a twiner around his neck.

It didn’t look like someone had put him there. He must have fallen by himself. Maybe tripped, stumbled and entangled himself in the mess of plants.

Poor bastard.

Arthur wanted to call out to him, ask him if he could help. Or maybe if he should go and get help. Though he really wasn’t sure if the man hasn’t been strangled by the time he would be back.

The _Sir_ slowly formed itself in his mouth, but never left it when he could see the struggling man’s face.

It was _him_.

 _He_ was hanging there and fighting with a plant over life and death.

For a second Arthurs whole mind was washed blank. He couldn’t decide if the upwelling feeling in him was nausea or panic or badly misplaced excitement.

Somewhere in his head he could hear the rational part of his mind screaming at him. Trying hard to make him move. To go and get him the fuck away from the abyss. Just do fucking _something_!

But the bigger part of his mind- the foolish side of, yes, a mere child- damned him into paralysation.

Arthur watched the man groaning with exhaustion; saw how he forced impossible strength through his muscles, even with all the wool that hid his body lines. His limps stayed surprisingly still, just hanging there like they were already dead.

Or like they got sacrificed in order to save the more important parts, as it happens with many frost-victims.

His back stretched into an odd bow, looked surreal and just wrong. The head fell back against the earthy flank of the hill and the long grass brushed of the old hat. It fell all too slowly down the abyss, yet he didn’t give it even a blink long of his attention. The strained sweat was more visible now, his dark blond hair was wet and slick with it.

Only when he heard a loud, thundering growl, Arthur twitched again. Actually flinched at the bearish sound. It was hard to believe what he witnessed, but he saw it with his own eyes! Saw how the Bondurant lifted his whole weight up along the noose that still trapped his throat in a threatening grip. Another snarl, another haul up and he managed to heave his body over the edge back onto save grounds. The dry grass must feel like the softest cloud under his heavy breathing body.

He did it.

He survived.

It never had been so hard for Arthur to simply breathe.

 

 

_____

 

 

Arthur knew he behaved absolutely ridiculous.

This should be easier. Really.

But it just didn’t seem to matter that he grew up with Floyd Banner and even worked for him over a fucking year! He still was nothing more than a nervous, uncertain bundle as soon as the station got into his sight.

He still was just... a kid.

 _He_ made him into a kid.

Always _he_. So contrary to Floyd’s effect.

It slowly started to nag and bite and wrench at his mind.

Why couldn’t he stop this?

Why was he like this?

He should be better than this. He was already spending half his life in the shadows. Crawling out should feel a lot sweeter. More relieving for his body. More rewarding for his mind.

Instead everything was blurred by tension and irrational fear.

Whenever Arthur walked out to the station, he could feel how his limps got heavier and his heartbeat faster with every step he got nearer to the old wooden house. It was even worse when he saw _him_ just leaving into his direction or merely sitting outside at the porch.

His whole insides rebelled instantly and merciless. Made him rush away and out for a hiding spot and cramp up with the fight to keep his breakfast in.

His eyes maybe never left the station but his feet didn’t even get nearly close to it.

It’s been already a whole mortifying week that he had forced himself into this limbo of childish dementia.

 

At day nine Arthur hadn’t thought that it was possible that his situation could become even more embarrassing. Not until a faintly familiar voice had hit him from behind like a bat despite the unfazed tone. A hint of suppressed humour lay in it that definitely was the damn cherry at the cake of humiliation.

_You sure are a strange boy._

Arthurs brain went cold dead. Couldn’t even make a last decision of,... yeah, what? Maybe running away? Would that be more awkward than sitting frozen in the bushes? Hardly. Both seemed fairly even distressing.

A boot nudged at his lower back, followed by a husky chuckle when he shivered involuntary.

_You wanna finally come in or creeping around some more?_

The idea of just passing out got more and more alluring, if he wouldn’t be sure to drop dead of shame as soon as he would wake up again. It was a minimal comfort that Howard was the one who had discovered him and now helped him up onto his wobbly legs. Not ideal, but definitely better than the alternative. Jack would have been best, yes, sure. But only ‘cause he knows Jack. Or Cricket! Oh yes; Dear, sweet, easy Cricket.

... Damn.

 

Some guests sat at the tables, drank and ate what the station had to offer. It was a modest list but more than most others had and definitely enough to keep people satisfied and loyal.

In the corner he saw Jack serving some scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes and baked beans to a guy Arthur knew from the forests. Lumberjacks were hungry fellas.

Behind the counter was the familiar broad back, the front occupied with cooking another round of eggs. A calm mountain suddenly so sharp within his sight that it felt surreal.

Like another of his countless dreams.

Should he say something?

Or wait till they say something?

Maybe he should order something? Just to force himself to do anything but continuously staring at the stretch of the light brown cardigan. How it shifted slightly with each subtle move of its owner at the grill plate.

So many layers.

Arthur still didn’t know whether he was he warm or cold.

_I got us a stray for supper._

_He ain’t no stray, he’s one of Floyd Banners._

Jacks amusement wasn’t unexpected. Yet still it managed to make Arthur straighten his back a bit more. He knew of his envy that he was in and Jack not.

His brothers wouldn’t allow it.

They had their own business running and needed their little brother to drive.

Or they just wanted to keep an eye on him and his tendency to get in trouble.

Arthur suspected the latter.

_Floyd Banners, hm?_

Raspy. Rough and rolling. Not too deep but pressed in the exact right accent to get immediate respect and authority. Arthur had heard this voice so so often. Through not quite closed doors, through windows, around corners, in the wildness.

The Humming.

Rumbling.

Groaning.

Choking.

Growling.

The man of few words and lots of expression.

Never had he heard those vowels so close. So direct.

His pulse was either too fast to notice anymore or had died out together with Arthurs breathe. He felt heavy and so incredibly light at the same time. Unable to think about anything. At the least about what to do. How not to behave like a complete retard.

God- He wanted _more_ of it.

Needed more.

Again.

Please.

Say something again.

_Heeeeyyyy~.... Now when I look at him, ... This pup seems actually quite familiar._

The spell was not broken but it got some big enough cracks to notice his surroundings once more. He felt Howard’s watery blue eyes on him. Scanning him unsteady but consistent.

He had nothing to hide professionally. Personally though he hoped that the oldest Bondurant had already his fair share of moonshine and wasn’t too shrewd anymore.

_He’s a towner and with Floyd. Likely you’ve seen him at some of our trips._

Jack again. Finished with serving the table and on his way back to the counter. A slight stretch, a swift look past his brothers body at the frying eggs and he turned back to Howard and Arthur. His expression was easy. Open. Just another boy in the eyes of many despite his age.

What does this make out of Arthur?

_Nah, it ain’t just this._

A different kind of nervousness started to crawl up Arthur’s spine. For all the times he had wanted to snatch a glance of their middle brother he had majorly been met with the form of Howard. Not purposely. Arthur was just too slow in his decision to try and dare and therefore was often left with the sight of the rear guard.

Had Howard really noticed him?

After all he drank a lot.

More than most.

_It will come to me. Gimme a bit._

Hopefully not. Whatever it was Howard tried to remember Arthur was certain it would be another nail for his already buried dignity.

_Anyway.  Floyd Banners pup it is, yes? What gives us the honour of your persistent sneaking presence?_

_I’m not- I wasn’t-!_

It was Howard who questioned him. But a slight shift under the brown cardigan made him silent.

The worst scenario would be that they thought of him as some sort of spy. But why should he be? Floyd and they were business partners right? No reason to judge him too hasty.

On the other hand, the Bondurants weren’t exactly famous for their mild temper and openhearted invitations.

Fuck.

 _He_ would throw him out any second, wouldn’t he?

_Oh, hi Arthur! You finally came by!_

It was the first time he truly looked away from the broad back and to the well known voice he was far too happy to hear. Crickets timing had never been better.

In his arms he carried a potato sack. Probably in preparation for the soon coming supper guests.

_The pup has a name!_

Could he please stop calling him this? Not in front of _him_.  Arthur was already overly conscious about his age. And sick and tired of it at the same time.

_Of course I do!_

The snicker he got for his replay let him bit his lip for a second.

Running was still an option, right? He was fast. He could make it.

Out of the corner of his eyes he noticed Jacks grin, his sudden certain posture.

He had tried to put that on him a few times, but so far Arthur had been always able to brush him of. To bring him down back to the level he really was.

He hated when Jack pushed himself above him.

He wasn’t any better.

Sure he was a Bondurant, but he still had to earn the real meaning of this promising name.

By then they were both just minion.

Drivers.

Apprentices.

But this here, the station, wasn’t Arthur’s territory. It wasn’t even neutral ground. Here was at the absolute end of the food chain and he accepted that. He grew up learning of rang and order.

What he couldn’t accept though was the obvious rising smugness of Jack being not the fledgling for once.

Now it was all Arthur who was the kid.

The _pup_.

Goddammit- Stop smiling!

He had the same permanent membership of the left-behind-kiddo-club as Arthur.

_Did you come by to ask for the job?_

Oh Cricket.

Always the right words.

Always a good distraction.

Or buffer.

Depends.

The air shifted noticeable. A curios mix of irritation, amusement and tension.

_Job, yes. Yes I am!_

Maybe Arthur would have wondered about Jacks deep frown, if his eyes wouldn’t snap immediately to the turning figure behind the counter.

He wasn’t even sure where to begin to describe the look Forrest Bondurant gave him. But it felt like he was nailed to the very spot he was standing. It was vexing and somewhat intimidating, but foremost it made Arthur blush. His cheeks were slowly burning up the longer the piercing grey lay on him.

In the end all he could do was staring right back, holding himself back not to wipe his sweaty palms at his dusty trousers, not suffocating at his own unfortunately swallowed spit and foremost forcing out a _You are still searching, Sir?_ with the last bits of his pitiful dignity.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, accompanied by a throaty loud laugh.

_How cute! Told you he was a stray!_

The force had him slightly stumble forward.

Arthur caught himself in time to see something that looked like utter irritation at Forrests face.

But this couldn’t be right, could it?

_Of course we still need some help around here, right Forrest?_

A pause.

A sound.

A growl.

Nothing more.

Forrest turned back around to the pans.

Left a startled Arthur and an even heavier laughing Howard.

_Brilliant! You’re hired kid. Come by tomorrow at nine._

That was _it_?

This is why he had lingered around the station for almost ten days?

Ha.

He better made sure Floyd only got to know the short version of this.

 

 

______

 

He couldn’t be there every day.

But often enough to ease his nerves bit by bit.

He still had other tasks to fulfil. Had to help his mum and Floyd. Primarily Floyd. Their moonshine commissions seemed to rise by the minute. The prohibition had made the cities unbearable by now and the countryside got more and more spontaneous visitors to shop some _local_ _specialities_.

While Arthur was out to deliver batch after batch to all those foreign costumers, he knew the Bondurants where in to make more of their Moonshine.

Floyd liked the recipe they have. Not perfect but it sold for a good enough price and that was all that mattered for a businessman.

The days he wasn’t busy driving around and waiting and more driving around, he came to automatically walk up to the station. This is what Howard had told him:

_Come by whenever it fits._

He did. With enthusiasm. That fast turned into nervous irritation.

The problem had been that they didn’t really give him specific tasks. Or even a clue where they would need help with. Well, not _them_ per se. Just Forrest actually.

He ran the station. The other two came and went like it fitted them, which was probably the reason why they ( _Forrest_ ) needed help. He guessed.

Howard had pointed out a few thinks here and there when he dropped by for a drink. (And how grateful Arthur had been for it in his first week after feeling like ordered but not picked up and ended mostly with scrubbing whatever surface he could reach. The tables and the floor of the station had never been this clean.)

Jack had given him some more particular tasks, though he figured fast that this was mainly stuff Jack himself didn’t wanted to do and was fast pulled off of them. ( _I really thought Jack would be cleverer than using our new stray. Better don’t listen to him, pup._ Howard had laughed and Arthur still hated this nickname he had put on him like a weird label.)

 

And Forrest, ... well, he had actually not said anything to him at all. A barely visible nod here, a tired hand wave there and lots and lots of grunts and groans in all kind of variations, that was how they, _he_ , communicated. Arthur’s first irritation and intimidation had faded fast to a strange eagerness to understand and master this unusual form of interaction Forrest sported along.

Though, thank god it was not only him he didn’t talk to. He was like this with everyone. He only talked when it was really necessary, which was probably why his voice was always so raspy and scratchy the few times he heard it. It was merely unused.

Nothing mysterious about this.

Nothing dangerous per se.

Yet still he shivered slightly every single time the middle brother opened his mouth.

 

After his first week he didn’t needed any direction or instructions anymore. He figured it’s best to simply look out for whatever he could do and then just do it.

No questions asked, no answers needed.

Something that seemed to be lighter on Forrest than on him.

Which is good.

Floyd had taught him to keep ones boss satisfied.

Or at least halfway okay.

Hard to tell with someone like Forrest, but Arthur was a quick learner!

 

After one month in the job he knew the Station like his own house and Forrest and him had slipped into a silent performance to keep things neat and running.

Serving, cleaning, fetching supplies, throwing drunkards out- They rotated in those tasks like they did never anything else.

Only the cooking was still a problem for Arthur.

He had tried to watch, to observe and take in, but besides eggs and baked beans he felt pretty incompetent as if to stand behind the oven. At least five times he had tried to ask Forrest to teach him. The words lingered already on his tongue, ready to be blabbered out. But every time he started addressing him, Forrest either stiffed like he just punched him in the kidneys or his look changed so quickly from neutral to ... yeah, what? Irritated? Confused? Intimidating? Disturbed? Dangerous?

Arthur just had no clue whatsoever. But it kept him from asking.

 

His favourite days were when he could start in the morning and stay till the Station closed.

When Arthur was finished with cleaning they would check the inventory. Together. Note down everything. Together.

While he counted everything n made comments on what they would need to stock up soon or what still got barely used, Forrest would write down everything in the books.

His hand writing was straight and clean, almost prim.

Orderly placed, perfect little letters.

One after another after another.

The numbers were treated with extra care so he won’t accidently mistake them.

Whereas the hyphens felt like checkmarks.

Or like a textual nod of Forrest.

Subtle and uncommon.

Beautiful.

Arthur knew no other man or woman with such a neat, secure hand.

 

Those evenings, when Arthur got ready for his walk home, would be the only times when Forrest accompanied him to the door. He would make another of his slightly softer groans (which Arthur figured might mean _Good Night_ or _See you_ or some similar form of leave-taking), his shoulders would tense up a second before he rolled them back again, then he would stare into the darkness in front of them for another few seconds and ultimately close and lock the old door as soon as Arthur was out at the porch.

If Arthur wouldn’t be so unreasonable pertinacious about this, he probably would have quit after the first time feeling like he got more or less kicked out.

What a fortunate thing that even strays were irrationally loyal.

 


	3. # 03

 

 

His hands were broad and thick. Dozens of tiny scars and white spots decorated them, made them already look rough without ever having touched them.

His hands were an undeniable proof of his hard work. Of his more or less honest life. The Bondurants were somewhat odd folks, but they were also certainly good people. People that loved their home and most of their neighbours and did all that was necessary to keep everything safe and running.

 

A badly suppressed mumbled curse came from where Forrest was cutting potatoes for the next cowboy pan. Another little grunt followed, before he left the counter, passed Arthur where he swept the floor and vanished into the little office in the back.

That happened surprisingly often.

Hard to tell how many of his scars came from little accidents like those.

For such a calm, quite and thorough man, he was extremely clumsy at the weirdest things.

Or maybe it was just bad luck.

Or a slip of his attention.

 

But then, there were also the swellings now and then that were definitely not from any kind of work.

The red and blue colours spread around his knuckles, surrounded by an ugly yellow that announced the healing process.

The Bondurants knew of right and wrong. Knew of what was cumbersome but still good and what could be easy but was simple injustice.

Floyd said that good men hardly have a facile life because they are dragged to the hard path by their conscious. Knowingly or not.

Arthur knew that Forrest protected what was his and right. Knew he was a kind man that did what was necessary and no one else could do.

But when he noticed Forrest digging his hands even deeper in his cardigan whenever they looked like a disastrous painting, he wasn’t so sure that Forrest knew that too.

 

 

_____

 

 

Autumn had coloured the trees and cooled the air.

Days got shorter again, and the long afternoons in front of a comfortable warming fire were not far away. Floyd was out of town for a week or two. No chance to run away from domestic tasks, when he hasn’t him as an alibi. Arthurs mum used him to help picking all the last fruits and vegetables from the small piece of land they inherited from his dad.

Apples and pears and pumpkins and beans and potatoes and tomatoes and some cabbage.

Most of it would end up sealed in glasses, ready to be stored in for the winter. Some would get dried or smoked as tiny sweets. And on some days she would use it directly for a good, hot soup or a delicious fresh pie.

Arthur liked when she only cooked for her and him. No one else. Just their tiny rest of a family.

Even though it was then always too much and they ate often two, three days from it, he didn’t mind. The feeling of having something just for them, not even shared with Floyd and the group, was rare and precious to him.

Even with his eleven years, he liked those small reminders of his mothers love.

 

As soon as he was done with his chores for the day, Arthur would give her a quick peck on the cheek and would go out. As long as the sun was still at the sky, it was easy and almost warm despite the rising winds. The nearing autumn storms.

They still needed to finish the preparations of their house for them.

Nobody wanted to go out and repair a leaking roof while a hurricane rampaged over them.

 

 

He had been playing hide and seek with Cricket and Robert.

The sun would sink soon, so they stayed at the edge of the town. Knowing there was no point getting out into the field’s and forests this late.

They were in their third round and it was Arthurs first to seek.

The few houses with their porches and the usual standing around things didn’t look like much. But it was a surprisingly good territory for hiding. All kinds of hidden and unusual spots made the game a good challenge for them.

Arthur already had been looking in corners, behind barrels, in barrels, behind posts, hey and delivery stakes. When he had found Robert hidden in hey (so obvious!), he had turned to look underneath the few cars for Cricket.

The boy was good, not at all hindered by his funny legs.

 

When Arthur found no trace of him at the bottom side, he switched to looking at the top. All of the cars in this part of the town had a cargo area to transport trades, groceries, crops, whatever turned up. And of course said cargo would be secured safely underneath a cover.

The perfect hiding spot.

Only when he came to the fourth car and lifted the cover to check for Cricket, he felt suddenly a brutal hand at his shoulder and an angry snarl from a nasty voice to near his ear.

_Th’fuck yar think yar doin’, lad?!_

The foreign accent made him shiver.

His hands immediately let go of the covers when the strong hand dragged him to the edge of the storage area. Then another pull and he landed hard at the dusty ground.

_Bludy rednecks! Sneakin’ around everywhere laike rats!_

_Ye think someon’ send him?_

A second man. A whole group. Possibly traders. Maybe buyers.

But Floyd was not here. Floyd was away.

Floyd-was- _away_.

Shit.

Arthur gasped when a foot was pressed hard into his chest. The air got literally pressed out of his lunges. Pain started to radiate from the pressure point.

_Fuck if Ah kno’!_

His hands grabbed for the heavy boot, tried instinctively to push it away. But all he earned was a smack against his cheek with something that looked all too much like a deer rifle.

He bit his lip against the rolling up pained noises.

_I was not- My friends and I were only-_

_Shut yer ugly gob, lad!_

Another smack. Harder and against his forehead.

This time Arthur groaned.

His vision started to blur, his head to throb.

He wondered if this was it. His last game.

How unexpected.

 

_Oi, you! Step away!_

The husky vowels rushed through his cortex like a lightening stroke.

Arthur’s body fell still. Only his tearing eyes were forced open to see. To confirm.

Even with his sight all blurry and messy he would recognize this particular figure anywhere. Or really more his posture. All broad and tight and hold together, never quite sure if he wants to go slack any moment with a long sigh or strike forward with a roar. 

_This’ non’ of yer business, Forrest!_

_But you see, it is. I really don’t appreciate how you folks tread our younglings._

_‘Lad stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong._

Arthur noticed how Forrest’s right shoulder got even tenser while his left hand went up to stroke his neck.

He was _so near_. Barely one, two meter away.

From where Arthur laid, he truly looked like a gigantic bear.

_Don’t know what you do in your town an’ don’t care. But here we don’t beat kids for being kids._

_Look mate, we’re done with ye so bugger off an’ spend some of yer new change, a’right?_

A soft grunt left Forrest’s throat. Almost like a _Hm._

The shift of weight was barely visible when Forrest suddenly lunged forward, his right colliding hard with the stranger’s face that stood on Arthur. He could feel thick, warm liquid dripping on him.

The foreigner gasped, gurgled, cursed. A second strike hit him before he could recollect himself. This time he stumbled from Arthur’s body, not without almost crashing his windpipe while falling to the side.

His small hands rushed up to his throat, coughing and automatically rolling together into a ball. Make yourself as tiny as possible. He was tempted to even role under the car if his body wouldn’t ache with pain.

He didn’t saw the third punch, but certainly heard it.

The harsh, gruesome cracking of bones.

The excruciating scream of a man.

More screams of other men. Aggression. Irritation. Commands. Questions.

 

The stranger’s body sank together right next to Arthurs.

His face was a mess of dark red blood. Barely recognizable as human.

Arthur yelped at the sight. Coughed again from the sudden pressure within his throat.

Somewhere underneath the chaos and the shouting and the gurgling (dying? Was he _dying_?) noises, he could hear a dangerous snarl.

Like a wild animal.

Again a hand grabbed for him. Heaved him off the ground, away from the bleeding man and up to his feet. He felt shaky and confused. His eyes snapped to the big hand, still lingering at his left arm ( _devouring it_. He was too thin for this broad man).  It was painted in red only broken here and there to show glimpses of scratchy metal.

His arm felt heavy and hot.

New blood dripping down to his sweater.

Hard muscles clenched under worn out textile. Barely hold back to clench around his stick like arm.

Arthur bit his bottom lip.

_Arthur!_

Robert.

He tore his eyes away. Searched for the source of the voice.

_Arthur! Are you alright?_

Cricket.

He had totally forgotten about them.

Where have they been?

The two boys stood together, unsure, nervous, with a safety distance of good six meter.

A sudden pull at his slowly hurting arm and then a push directed at his friends. Arthur stumbled, hissed, caught himself in time before he landed in the dust against.

_Go home._

The voice was too calm. Too weirdly smooth for a command. Yet it let no room for discussion.

Cricket and Robert took Arthur by his wrists and wordlessly pulled him with them. First in a fast walk, then a run.

His lunges hurt immediately but he kept running.

Along the dirty roads with the red sun in their backs.

 

Cricket and Robert didn’t look back to the mess they created.

To Forrest who was left behind to clean it.

Arthur did.

 

 

____

 

 

He was cleaning the porch. Freeing it from the early October dust and leaves.

Or at least, he wanted to.

Fire wood was lying around the whole left site. Enough out of the way to let costumers in and not to interfere with Forrest’s rocking chair. But it definitely wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Arthur didn’t even know how it landed here. Whoever chopped it must have been too tired to bring it back into the wood hut. Or too much in a rush.

In the end, it didn’t really matter.

 

When you don’t have a dad or older brothers, you grow up being used to carrying around heavy goods. Arthur maybe didn’t looked like much with his lean stature, his narrow hips and the face that still looks far too young for his age, but he was packed with enough lower musculature to keep up with most men of their town.

And thanks to his ever growing frame, his arms were by now even long enough to no longer having the problem of not enough range. In fact, since his last growth spurt he felt a bit out of balance sometimes. Everything got so long and gangly.  Coordination could be hard now and then.

Maybe this was how Cricket felt every single day.

 

Blocks of wood squeezed between his arms, Arthur went to the little barn that was reserved for stocks.  He hummed a song he heard the first time a few years ago in the radio. He had liked it from the very first moment though it was definitely different from the music they played at the dance nights in town.

It was more cheery in a somewhat cheeky way. Something that was made to stuck in your ear.

His mother didn’t like much stuff that came in the radio, but even she liked _Blue Skies_.

It was a good song, no matter how you look at it.

 

_Blue skies_

_Smiling at me_

_Nothing but blue skies_

_Do I see_

 

The pile shrunk bit by bit, was transferred to the place it belonged to.

With the warm sun rays from the spotless sky one could almost be fooled it’s still late summer.

Only the colourful trees and the chilly wind demonstratively showed off which season it truly was.

Two more loads and the porch should be free to broom.

_Never saw the sun shining so bright_

_Never saw things going so right_

_Noticing the days hurrying by_

_When you’re in love, my how they fly_

 

_You sing._

Arthur jumped. Almost let the chock blocks fall out of his arms.

It hasn’t been a question. It was a statement.

_Often._

He did. A silly habit he had adopted from his mother.

It was somewhat partly self entertainment and partly a way to focus.

As a kid people hadn’t mind.

With fifteen Arthur was long over the age where he should’ve cut off this childish habit.

Well, probably.

So far Forrest had never said something about his musical tick. Yet,... it was Forrest and he never really said much to anything.

Arthur shifted on his feet, corrected his balance so the woods weight was more comfortable.

_Does it bother you?_

Forrest stared at him for a few seconds, his brows slowly creating that deep wrinkle between them again. By now Arthur interpreted this specific form of the wrinkle as Forrest way to say _Why are you asking me such a stupid question?_ or a general sign of miscommunication.

Or in Forrest case- Misunderstanding.

Not that many people made the effort and tried to read out of the Bondurant’s minimalistic repertoire.

Forrest turned around with a _Hmpfr_ and picked up the last pieces of wood.

_Is that a no?_

He walked slowly over to where Arthur still stood, his posture not the least bit influenced by the additional weight. The growth spurt had brought them to eye level. It helped to make him feel not too awkwardly small. It didn’t help his raising heart beat when he noticed the extra stretch under the cardigan sleeves.

_Hm._

Arthur felt almost compelled to smile. Could not avoid the upturning of his mouth corners.

 

When Forrest passed him, he followed.

The first two, three steps were stumbling. Lacking of the rhythm he had built up over his last walks.

The broad shoulders under the grey textile shifted barely while his whole statue slightly fluctuated from one side to the other.

It was a heavy walk on light feet. Exercised feet.

Forrest was too used to carry the world on his shoulders.

 _You don’t have to help me._ Arthur started out of reflex but bit his lip when he noticed the immediate stiffness along the blade bones. _I mean,..._ – He sped up to walk next to the Bondurant. Grey eyes looked straight forward, but he could still read the question in them. When someone was poor in words it was even more important to search in their faces for answers.

 _Thanks._ He completed; a form of apology in his own expression.

_Mh._

For a moment Arthur thought he had faint comfort within the short nod.

 

 

____

 

The wind blew chilly around the old wood planks. Rattled them. But it was barely noticeable through the costumer’s noisy chats.

Jack and Arthur were alone in the station.

Something Arthur could have appreciated as sign of trust if he wouldn’t knew that they had been simply left behind by the other two Bondurant’s. They went off for business. What else.

Arthur didn’t like to be left outside of the action here too, but he could accept it. Has to accept it anyway. He wasn’t here for the Moonshine but for the station. To help Forrest.

 

Jack on the other hand was all cranky and moody the whole evening long.

Understandable.

He was their brother. He was blood. He should be with them.

It wasn’t for the Station or Arthur they had made him stay. Cricket could help out any time. He didn’t need Jack as his overseer. But this is how they were. Sometimes they went alone, without Jack. Not willing to share just yet whatever they were up to alone. 

 

It was around ten when they came back.

Sidling through the door like thieves.

It wasn’t necessary to look at them to notice the change of aura. To feel the sudden firmness in the air and the closed off walls around the middle brother. His face was hidden in the hats shadows, his posture stern and stiff.

It was one of those days again.

Forrest didn’t look at any of them. Just slinking directly into his office and shutting the door.

Howard stayed, smiled but it was an uneasy one. Slightly tinted with something that Arthur dared to call remorse.

 _What the hell happened?_ Jack blurted before Arthur could even think it.

_‘Costumer has been a bit...skittish. Nothing serious._

Jack wanted to go into the office. He had turned and set an unsteady foot forward into its direction His expression left Arthur unsure if he was worried or angry.

_Jack, don’t. ‘S alright._

Jack still hesitated. His body was tense and slowly moved back and for. Ready to move but not willing to do a wrong step. In moments like these Arthur recognized how different Jack and he could be. The only real bond their shared is their destiny sitting and waiting while their heroes took all the candies and the risk.

 _Jack._ Howard repeated and Jack eventually turned back.

He bit his lower lip but otherwise kept quiet.

No more battles for today.

 

Howard poured himself a drink before he ordered Arthur to close the station. Clean up, throw the trash out, get rid of the residually costumers.

It’s earlier than their usual time but he understands. _Give Forrest some rest_ , remained a silent demand anyway.

It wasn’t surprising that Jack didn’t stay. As soon as his brother’s eyes left him, he went for his shanty, even moodier than before. The face distorted into a clearly unsatisfied mask.

It was okay. Arthur knew exactly what to do. Had a routine by now. He gave the sitting men a warning announcement that they’ll close any minute so they had time to finish their drinks and food.

Meanwhile he started to clean up behind the counter. Washing the dishes, putting the left over ingredients back into the larder, cleaning the workplace and around Howard at the counter. Piercing blue eyes followed his every movement. All three brothers did that form time to time. Carefully watching the intruder in their territory. Or that was at least what Arthur thought it was.

When he came to clean the ashtrays and tables, Howard stood up and started to lead their stubborn costumers out one after another. For a moment his walk looked somewhat off. Not as easy and slurred as usual. Was he limping?

Only when the men were out and Howard saw them walking or driving away, he turned to say good night too. _Ya can handle the rest alone?_

A nod. A mumbled _Night._ followed by a louder _Thanks._

_Sure thing, pup._

He still hated this name.

 

The rest was easy. Quickly done. Getting the chairs up the tables, sweeping the floor, extinguish the fire, shutting off the lights.

There was only one thing he couldn’t do.

The ash was brought out, but his hand remained at the knob of the backdoor. For a few seconds he stared to the office. Little beams of orange light streamed through the cracks in the wood.

Arthur knew he should leave Forrest undisturbed, but someone needed to shut the doors behind him. An open house was like an invitation for homeless people and vagabonds to creep in at their search for a nightly roof over their heads.

He really didn’t want Forrest to run later into a bunch of hobos and would need to kick them out.

 

His steps were slow when he steps to the office. He knocked carefully, testing.

_Forrest? Sir?_

No answer, he knocked again.

The stretching silence was not unexpected. It’s all about quietness with Forrest. But this didn’t mean he didn’t speak nor had nothing to say. Oh no. Forrest silence was like the Inuit’s snow- Only distinguishable for those who learned to listen outside the common vocabulary.

Seconds passed. And passed. He was about to speak up again when he thought he heard a soft sound behind the old wood. Arthur wasn’t quite sure but he opened the door nevertheless.

_I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m done and the doors need to be-_

Vowels died out when his dark brown eyes fell onto Forrest’s form. How he sat there at the same small round table they always did the inventory at. But instead of yellowish notes and marks and pens and two mugs of tea, it was covered with a dirty towel and a spread out sewing kit.

Forrest only wore his under shirt. Never before had he seen the other in less than a shirt. Even in the torrid heat of the summer. Almost as if he wanted to hide himself. Arthur never quite understood why. It wasn’t as if he was plastered with scars. Not more than other men.

But now, looking at him, sitting there, eyes heavy, in his undershirt with the oddly brownish stain at his left flank, it was only one word that crossed Arthurs mind: _Vulnerable_.

Forrest Bondurant looked utterly vulnerable.

 

Arthur’s eyes began to wander; From the dangerous stain that still looked fresh enough to unsettle him, to the bleeding left arm that was supported by the table and the towel underneath caught the slowly dripping blood, to the needle between his bruised hands that looked so incredibly tiny that it was almost ridiculous. It became hard to focus.

Dirt and blood along the frowned forehead.

Skin peeled from the red blue knuckles.

The cardigan gently held between the strong fingers of his other hand.

He was sewing. Of course Forrest fucking Bondurant was _sewing_ at his goddamn cardigan while he was bleeding all over the place!

When Arthur looked back into the motionless face, he was responding his stare. Under the put on expression of waiting and the usual soul eating observation out of those dark grey eyes, Arthur could see the streaks of uncertainty. Exhaustion. Pain.

Arthur heard himself sighing.

He wanted to declare him as idiot.

Wanted to question what’s wrong with him.

But it has been never a question. It’s just how it was. It’s not his fault. People like Forrest and Floyd were not used to weakness. They took care of everything, but they never had the luxury of getting this favour returned. Real anger and atony both so irritating and alien emotions in their secure world of calm control. They don’t reach out hands. They crawl into dark corners till their composure is steady enough again and ready to carry them on.

 

Arthur loved their strength, but he hated their self-evident behaviour.

 

_You know you can ask for help, right? That’s why I’m here._

The slight raise of the ever so sunken in, sceptical eyebrows was answered by Arthur with the same motion. For a moment it felt like Forrest would slap him for whatever word he would dare try to say out loud next. But then he broke the stare with a _Hmpf_ and went back to sewing at his cardigan.

Arthur sighed once more, relaxed his face.

Sometimes it was still too hard to read out of his minimalistic palette of expressions.

When he was suddenly reminded of that one time years ago when his mum had burned her leg through a fallen pot of boiling water. She had started preparing supper and even after the burning, which had looked terrifying for him, she had continued after a minute of heavy breathing and putting a mere wet towel on the dangerous burns.

 _Strong Lady_ , that’s what Floyd liked to call her.

 _Survivor_ , is what Arthur sometimes thought of her.

 

_Okay. Well. Hm. Alright, ... ehm... How can I- No. May I-_

Arthur stopped, waited for the grey eyes to get their questioning focus back on him. Away from the blood stained hole in the cardigan.

The words lay heavy on his tongue. He knew what he wanted to say, but it wasn’t necessarily what he should say. What Forrest the survivor wanted to hear.

But when the grey eyes seemed to say _Go on,_ Arthur did.

_May I help you?_

The slowly creeping scepticism in Forrest’s face would be a punch into his ego with every other person. When you worked for someone over a certain period of time you thought you deserve at least some trust, right?

But since it was no other than Forrest, the only response to it was an inner eye role. What did he thought Arthur would do to him? It’s not like he couldn’t stop him anytime. Even with a lot more wounds at his body. 

Not that he ever wanted to see him like this. (Please don’t.) This right then was already enough. (Please stay well.)

 

The Bondurant’s shrug looked so much like _Whatever_ that it was hard for Arthur to keep his composure.

The followed _...Hm._ was back in the regular scheme of his limited expressions, but the whole posture of Forrest appeared different. Changed. More ... loose. (He didn’t dared to think relaxed even though his shoulders had never sat so far away from his jaw-line)

 

Arthur grabbed for his usual chair and pulled it around to face the other.

His hand angled for another needle and a thicker yarn. When he gestured to Forrest to present him his arm, he followed the appeal without the usual hesitation.

Grey eyes followed his every move. Pinned through his careful motions. He had never been this conscious about his hands. (Quite big for his age) His fingers. (Slender and so so long. Too long for a farmer but perfect around the trigger of Floyds Thompson .45) His whole posture while the needle broke through skin again and again.

_Why the towel?_

Arthur said because it was still there, in the corner of his eyes. Dirty and crumbed but neat in the most ridiculous way.

_Prevents the wood from staining._

The needle stopped for a moment. Not that long, but long enough for Forrest to shift slightly in his seat and for Arthur to warn him to sit still.

_I’m not so sure that this functions. That thing is soaked._

There were no other words than _amused_ and _oddly cheeky_ to describe Forrest’s mimic.

Had he worked the needle in that moment, he definitely would have wounded him with the next stitch.

_‘Worth a try._

 

Three little words.

And a smile.

Arthur got thrown off the track and dragged back to feel as grounded as if it never had been anything else between them. Always like this.

Calm.

Trusting.

At ease.

Now it was his turn to be out of words.

Nothing at all in his head to say.

Only the beat of his heart in his ears and the broken skin underneath his fingers.

It’s been so long since he met Forrest. Saw him for the first time and thought him invincible. They both had walked so many hundred miles since then just to end up here in this tiny office, with a puddle of blood and dirt and a tiny crooked smile.

Arthur almost didn’t notice how his mouth bent to return the smile.

_True._

 

 


	4. #04

____

 

 

Next week would be the fourth Thursday of November-

His first Thanks Giving since he worked not just for Floyd but the Bondurant’s too.

Arthur would spend it as always with his mum and her sisters Family in Chicago. (Even though he cannot deny how much he would’ve loved to stay this year. Only once.) Floyd would act spontaneously as every year. Sometimes he had time to join them, sometimes not. Both would’ve been okay. They would shift some turkey and pastries aside to give Floyd when they would be back.

His mum always paid special attention that there was only the best meat in the sandwiches.

Not too dry, not too pink, always from the breast.

Arthur thought about making some sandwiches this year too.

With less turkey and more ham and a thin layer of mashed sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce.

And some pie.

He really should bring some pie.

Forrest never said something, but Arthur had the feeling he liked pie.

Since September had hit, he had seen him rather often in the kitchen trying to bake some. But as good as he was with cooking a good, honest meal, Forrest Bondurant was utter rubbish at baking. The outcome always had looked quite... decent. But the taste had been burned and just wrong.

 

The reason Forrest tried it over and over again was simple: People liked their bakery and jam and sweets in autumn and winter season.

Yet, after the fifth time Arthur had tasted his baking, he had decided to take this measure in his own hands. This morning when he walked up to the station, his breath little white clouds in front of his face, he had carried the little notebook of his mother in his pocket.

By the time Forrest came back from getting wood for the fireplace and the oven, Arthur was already half done with preparing his second pumpkin.

The expression on Forrest face was a clear _What the hell you’re doing there, kid?_ But he didn’t stopped him. He never did.

 

What he did was observing him.

From the safe distant of his regular table, but blatantly and unbothered.

Arthur wasn’t sure if he was wary about his actions or if he maybe tried to learn how Arthur did it.

The slow mashing of the pumpkin bits. The diligent measuring of sugar, flour and water. The thorough mixing of the dough. The easy scattering of the creamy liquid in the prepared little potteries. The careful placing of the hood over the little pastries.

 

Making pie was easy. Arthur had watched his grandmother and mother hundreds of times and helped them out since he stopped stumbling over his own feet. It’s actually a quite relaxing task. Just not some one would expect a man to do outside of a pub or tavern.

A more delicate task was the making of sweets.

When the first costumers of the day arrived for their usual breakfast before they would head further out to hunt, Arthur stopped his chopping of ginger and chilli to serve them. But before he could even drop the knife he suddenly felt Forrest presence behind him. Passing him. Mumbling _‘S okay._

Plates were prepared, the coffee can and pans put on the stove.

From the corner of his eyes Arthur noticed a hand reaching into his direction, then pausing. Hovering above the eggs.

_Can I-?_

_Of course!_

It was a weird sensation how calmness and excitement flooded through his body at the same time.

Not like it was their first time together behind the counter.

Really not. (That first time it was hard to tell who was more nervous- he or him)

But it was something in the way they had learned to work around each other. How Forrest nudged him gently, when he needed more space at the shopping board. How he tried to keep the onions still far enough away from Arthurs candy ingredients. How he in between the frying and pouring in freshly brewed coffee still had his eyes on Arthurs movements. No, mostly on his hands. Always his hands.

 

The first batch of ginger and chilli chocolate drops were drying.

The mass for the rum balls, which would actually be Moonshine balls, was soaking in the alcohol and still needed a good thirty to forty minutes to be ready for the last step.

Arthur was fumbling with a bowl full of caramel fudge.

Everything was sticky.

His brain felt high on endorphins from all the sugar fumes and probes.

He wanted to use the little boxes Forrest sometimes put in nuts to fill in the fudge. But the constant stirring of the mass to make it soft and creamy kept him occupied. He awkwardly balanced on one foot while pushing with the other the drawer open he knew the boxes were kept in.

When he bowed to try to reach the boxes, the fudge started to drip over the bowls edge onto his non stirring hand and his shoes.

 _Shit!_ He cursed, got immediately upright again.

 

Before he could even think about a new plan Forrest was suddenly kneeling in front of the rack. In front of _him_.

_What do you need?_

Arthur needed a moment to cope with the words. To decipher them and react.

But not before Forrest looked up, piercing him with his grey eyes and waiting for an answer, Arthur found his language again.

 _The nut boxes._ His smile was excusing. He was supposed to be the helping hand, not the other way around.

_Thanx.._

The boxes were put on the counter in front of him. Far too many of them, but he forgot to say stop in time. Even when he knelt Forrest was a compact mountain.

A mountain to Arthur’s feet.

Even with his grow spurts in the last months, he had never felt this awkwardly tall and body conscious. What if Forrest’s look wouldn’t be glued to the content of the drawer? What if he would look up again? What if he would lick his lips like he did so often when he waited? What if Arthur would reach forward to touch them like he had wanted for god knows how many years?

He ripped his eyes away from the sight, back to the fudge. Glaring at it.

Concentration! He had such a good focus till now. Fuck! Just- Get a grip on your mind.

He couldn’t allow it to just run loose like this. Not here. Not in front of him.

 

When the stream of boxes suddenly ended, Arthur put the fudge bowl down too. His right hand still continued stirring the mass. With his left he reached out for the first little container. In time he remembered the sticky mess from before. In instinctual reaction he started to lick the fudge of his fingers. More sugar streamed immediately through his system. Started to make him feel slightly shaky.

Almost high enough to miss the new gaze burning on his skin.

The question that lay in his expression felt apart when he looked side wards.

Forrest was standing _right there_.

Not in distance but just... _there_. In front of him. Near enough to smell cigars, wood, ink, tea and wool.

His stare felt bone-breaking. The forehead so tightly frowning, his grey eyes so mercilessly piercing him. Right to his very core. Taking him apart. It felt like a silent but erratically demand. Irritation lay behind them. Darkening them in a way that Arthur unconsciously bit down on his finger.

The muttered curse brought more instability into Forrest’s whole form.

His expression got this specific, almost pained confusion he wore whenever he came back with his hands buried in his cardigans dark spotted pockets.

 

_You’re burning my bacon, Forrest!_

Forrest blinked, drew back and rolled with his shoulders.

A new form of grumble vibrated through him. Impossible to interpret.

And just like this he turned around to the oven and trained, steady hands kept continuing to prepare the guests meal. The burned bacon got thrown into the bin and fresh slices were thrown into the hot fat.

 

Arthur could hear himself letting out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.

Blood was rushing loud in his ears.

What just happened?

 

 

____

 

 

They had have some problems this year with the new laws from the state, yet, nevertheless the midsummer festivities preparations finished even earlier than usual. The town was decorated with flowers and banners and booths of local and travelling merchants and fare people. Music was constantly flowing through the streets- A vibrant and almost swinging mix between Violin, Bass, Washboard, Ukulele and Guitar. Here and there Arthur even recognized people from the church playing like this was their new chosen form of life.

Well, maybe it was. His mum said god has a plan for all of them.

And even though Arthur wasn’t a particularly great believer ( _Only believe in the things you can see or track down._ Floyds used to say), he knew that a tiny spark of inspiration and will could be enough to change ones whole life.

Maybe the church’s gardener would be a passionate musician by this time next year?

 

Midsummer was always something Arthur loved. When everything seemed for a short time absolutely carefree and nothing and no one could bother them. When he was younger he had imagined that life in South Europe must be like this all the time. Or in Mexico.

With his thirteen years he knew better by now, but this certain fantasy still remained in his head.

 

Floyd had taken him along to an early midday walk along the starting festivities, right to the merchants in order to assist him. His mum’s birthday would come up soon and Floyd was always someone to use an opportunity when he saw one.

Arthur loved that Floyd valued his opinion. Not for all things of course but it got and more.

They passed the jewellery booth right away.

Both knew that this glimmer stuff might be pretty to look at and the dollars you spend for it spoke for themselves, but it was nothing his mum would truly want. She was a practical and hard working woman. The occasions to wear jewels were rare and to be honest- She would probably sell it sooner or later in order to buy better seeds for the veggie garden or renew their house.

No. A practical woman needs practical things. Yet still with thought!

 

They had lingered around the pottery for awhile but decided in the end that it might carry the wrong intentions. The few textile traders certainly had some good offers; lovely fabrics, blank with brilliant colours, simple with floral stitch work, resistant or soft and moving like the wind itself. Floyd explained to him that this material was called silk and came from the Far East. It was so precious that kings and queens traded for it since from all over the world. Arthur could easily understand the fuss about it. He instantly loved the soft, fluent fabric and its many vivid colours.

Yet again, this was nothing they could buy for his mum. They couldn’t imagine her to wear something of that fine quality. Not that it wouldn’t suit her, but she would be too wary about damaging the fine textile.

So fabrics could be crossed out too.

It really wasn’t easy to get something for his mum.

 

They were looking around for another possible option, when Arthur’s attention got caught by something unexpected. A smell was slowly creeping in his nostrils, first subtle and teasing. But the moment he recognized it, it became so overwhelming and alluring that he couldn’t withstand to drag Floyd along with him. Ignoring his irritated protest and following his nose to one of the booths further down the road.

A bronze skinned trader greeted them cheerfully in a funny, somehow swallowed up accent he never heard before. His round cheeks were full with deep wrinkles although he didn’t seem to be that old. An effect Arthur had witnessed at many farmers- the sun could have a curious effect on people. The traders teeth where alabaster white and his eyes even darker than Arthur’s. Some textile were wrapped around his head and he also seemed to wear some of the silk they had just admired mere minutes ago. Never had he seen a man like this!

And also the products he displayed had a diversity one could only be fascinated by.

All those different spices, many announced with names he wasn’t even sure how to pronounce. Their various shapes and colours. And the smells. Oh god, what a smell! Overwhelming but so good even within this chaotic mixture. He had no words to even begin to describe what he sense experienced by just standing in front of the booth. It felt like a whole world travel presented to him on little silver and gold and bronze bowls. Memories flushed through his system like a relieving breeze at a particularly hot summer day. They mixed themselves with pictures and ideas produced by this new sensation, creating an entirely new world he could so easily drown in.

 

 _This is it._ Arthur said with satisfied certainty.

Floyd merely nodded, his eyes fixed on the powdery and grained wonders in front of him.

 

The trader showed them thoroughly through his stack, explained their foreign names and how to best use it. Some were so manifold and had such an exquisite taste, that it was all too easy to imagine how fantastic food cooked with it must taste! Not to mention the joy to play around and experiment with such unknown wonders!

After they selected a good selection for his mum (cinnamon, cumin, anis, ginger, green and red curry, green pepper, white mustard and saffron and on top some dates and a nut mix for her to eat- when Floyd paid the good man, Arthur almost choked on his own tongue over the price. Freakin Hell, that stuff was worth more than probably everything Arthur owned altogether- in all his thirteen years of being alive!), Floyd send him to wander a bit around by himself. He would catch up with him in a bit.

Arthur knew without even asking the older that he already planned to get himself some good deals for the company and pep up the moonshine for the next season. Some of the distillers weren’t too fuss about their own recipes and would easily accept Floyds offer to add some new spices to the mixture. Always the businessman.

 

Arthur didn’t came far, was already dragged into the smell of another booth no more than twenty meters ahead. It was similar to the richness of the Far East spice booth but so much sweeter and earthier at the same time.

They had three different candy shops in town but none of them had such a rich offer of chocolate as this single booth. He had heard from Floyd’s second Will about the endless possibilities of _real chocolate_ (like he likes to tell it). _Nothing like that cheap over sugared stuff you can buy here but the real thing- straight for South America enriched with flavours you would never associate with chocolate when you’re no brownie!_

Two times he had brought him something when he came back from a trip down there (No idea what he went there for in the first place. Maybe vacations, maybe business, maybe a treasure hunt. With Will you never knew.)

Arthur had memorized the unknown flavours with meticulous precision because, yes, Will had been right- Once you tasted this kind of chocolate is became hard to find joy in the local one (Not that he was a particularly big fancier of candies anyway, but this South American stuff definitely had gotten to his gustative nerve)

 

Finding now a booth full of those treasure here in their little town was an unexpected pleasure.

He joined the three ladies standing in front of it, discussing with each other what flavour they should buy and if they should go for some pure beans too and what about the powder for hot drinks?

A smile lingered on the boys face while he read all the little neat signs from the products and took in their delicate aromas. He even espied some dried fruits dunked into dark and white chocolate.

Ha.

White chocolate.

He had actually never tried this one cause it had seemed suspicious to him. Cacao Beans were dark when roasted. Like coffee. How could there possibly result _white_ chocolate out of it? He didn’t quite trust it.

Although he had to admit that it looked alluring nevertheless.

 

While he was still taking in all the different labels, the booth owner suddenly offered him a plate full of samples. Invited him to go ahead and try whatever he wanted to. Take your time. No rush. Just enjoy and then maybe decide. No pressure.

How could he deny such an offer?

Arthur thanked with a genuine smile and first angled for a piece that was described as dark praline crème with cacao bean splinters, pistachios and a shot of dark rum, the whole thing topped with pure cacao powder.

It felt like nothing he had ever put into his mouth.

An incredibly gentle explosion of flavours, spreading out so softly and thorough that it was more like a soft, soothing rain than a full bomb in his mouth. He could hear himself moan softly about the newly discovered taste combinations. Rolling around the chocolate in his mouth and exploring carefully every edge with his tongue. The textures, the ingredients. Sucking it ever so slowly to save the flavours as long as possible, drain every little note out of it and catalogue its sensation and effect on his body. Endorphins flushed through his system and made him feel all tingly and light headed.

It was absolutely fantastic!

Addictively good!

 

He wanted to reach for another probe, hadn’t even realised how he had closed his eyes at some point in favour of the incredible flavours. Yet when he opened his eyes, it was a millisecond too late to stop his body into bumping into another while his instincts had already pushed him forward in the direction where he had assumed the chocolate plate to be.

His face collided with a surprisingly hard structure covered by a layer of soft wool. His immediate surprised squeal was accompanied by a soft grunt. 

 

Pain vibrated starting from his nose in waves along his face.  
Arthur groaned quietly and reached for the aching spot. The moment he touched his nose, he immediately drew back, hissed. _Ouch._

And as if he just remembered what he did, he mumbled hectically _I’m sorry, Sir!_

_Hm._

Go back directly to the spice booth, pay triple of what Floyd already paid and it came near to the shock he felt when he heard the all too familiar voice. This cannot be real. This must be a bad dream provoked by the hormone rush of the too good to be true chocolate.

Arthur had a good imagination. Was already more familiar than he liked to, to imagine this certain person. But when he lifted his eyes, reality couldn’t be possibly more real.

_You alright, kid?_

He must have looked at him like a dear that had just been shot and hasn’t quiet realised yet that it would go down any second now.

 _Eh..._ Was the most intelligent answer he could give.

 

What is Forrest Bondurant even doing here? When he thought of this local legend he wouldn’t quite associate him with chocolate. Then again... Why not? He was after all also just a human being, ... or that’s at least what his mum is saying every time they talked about Forrest and the Bondurant’s. Arthur really wasn’t so sure about that.

 

_Here._

An amazingly white and clean tissue was suddenly held in front of his faces. Well, white and clean except for one corner that had some brownish smudges. Crusting the textile ever so slightly at those spots.

Forrest must have noticed his eyes wandering to said spots, because the next thing he said was a mumbled _Sorry, it’s my only one._

Arthur eyes went back up to the man’s face. It was hard to read his expression under the shadows off his hat. He liked to think he saw some streaks of worry at this strong, unbending face, but it looked weirdly like fidgety irritation.

He blinked.

It only got clear why Forrest offered him a tissue, when he felt something wet touching his lips.

His tongue instinctively dipped out to check what this liquid exactly was, but wasn’t all too puzzled when he could taste copper. Merely further embarrassed crept along his skin.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

What was wrong with his body?

It was not like he had ran with full speed into the other- It had been just a damn bump!

 

Arthur thought about refusing. Was already about to open his mouth and brush his clumsiness off as cool as his broken dignity could still manage, when he heard a soft _Hmprf._ from Forrest.

 Well, okay.

That probably should tell him something but he had honestly no idea what this noise meant.

Was he displeased? Impatient? Angry? Confused?

Out of his own irritation Arthur simply took the offered tissue after all, pressed it under his still running nose and painted it with further dark spots. It was actually good. Saved his shirt from staining and his mother from trying to get the stuff out.

_Thanx._

Arthur smiled up, as easy as he could with his nerves spread out all over the place.

Forrest barely nodded, made a short hum of approval and turned around to leave.

This felt all so oddly abrupt and like a forcefully shoved in scene from a terribly corny theatre play. It just didn’t sit right in Arthur’s stomach. He wasn’t even completely sure what exactly just happened. Probably he had just fainted pathetically from the sugar rush and banged his head at the table leg or some shit like this.

It seemed a hell lot more plausible and real than the just occurred scene.

 

 _And again, sorry! Really!_ He spontaneously shouted after the walking away broad mountain.

The right hand was lifted as if to say goodbye. Or maybe, don’t worry? Or, whatever kid?

Arthur pressed the tissue further against his nose.

A faint earthy note managed to wave through the rich flavours of chocolate and spices.

Arthur stiffened.

None-deniable reality that mercilessly sneaked up at him and punched him right where it felt the best.

Mother of Christ!

Keep it cool. Don’t make it even worse.

Just... keep it cool.

 

 

He had rarely been this relieved to be send home by Floyd. Just to change his clothes and grab his mum so they could meet up with him again in this new little place that had opened two months ago for a slightly more fancy lunch.

Knowing his mum, Arthur knew he would have at least twenty minutes till she was ready to go.

That was enough. More than enough.

He was already half done when he jumped up the stairs and told her about Floyd’s invitation in mere passing.

His body completely overreacted with a sensitivity ridiculously fitting to his age and he was absolutely aware of it. But this didn’t mean he could change anything about it. As far as the guys told him, it would get even worse over the next years. Weird stuff like hormones and whatnot that make your brain all mushy and certifiably insane.

Great. Just great.

Did girls have the same issues?

Would he still lie on his bed, rolled on the side, his right hand slipped into his pants while he held the used tissue under his nose with the other if he would be a girl?

Maybe.

Maybe he would do it.

The mechanics would be of course slightly different, but the outcome would be still the same.

He would still brush along his heated, erected body part. Stroke it. Let more blood rush down and soft pants would escape his mouth.

He would still be sucked into a new, overwhelming sensation.

He would still feel so much more thrilled than at all the other times he had masturbated.

He would still wonder how it’ll feel if this wouldn’t be his hand smearing pre-come around to ease the motion.

The smell of blood was so easily mixed up with the earthy musk. The earlier stains were too inviting to not project it. It was all _him_.

 _His_ scent.

 _His_ blood.

Fresh and so so vivid.

Vulnerable and brutal at the same time.

Not even that different from the smell he encountered daily with Floyd guys, but then again unique and special enough because Arthur _knew_. Knew who it belonged to.

He was not a ghost. Not a fairytale.

And never before had Arthur felt so excited about someone else being simply... _alive_.

 

 


	5. #05

 

 

Arthur hadn’t liked them the moment he had seen them arriving at the bureau.

 

The days had become short.

The night were cold enough to leave crystals every morning along the countryside.

Frosty dew soon would become real snow.

The town felt empty at this season. People liked to stay in when the weather became too uncomfortable. Liked to gather in front of their fireplaces and ovens. At their cosy armchairs and soft furs. Drinking tea, hot milk and warm ale.

It was a good time for knitting and carving and studying arts and literature, if one wanted to.

And it was a good time for business as long as one knew how to get all the supplies to continue to distil.

 

The clocks hand barely crawled over the five but the sun was down for a good two hours already.

Arthur was seated at the dusty window of Floyds archive in the second floor. He had filed away some bills and notes of their last week’s deliveries and requests of potentially new customers.

A boring task he nevertheless had learned to love over the last weeks. Learned to appreciate the beauty of structure and the advantage of knowing every tiny detail of the run ins and outs of a business.

 

But what he had also learned was to keep a steady eye at unknown costumers.

 

The bureau was mostly empty.

At a Saturday afternoon they had a lot to do on the streets. In the town. In the little gatherings and huts around and about. The cold made people long for their moonshine all the more. And some mulled wine the Bondurant’s presented specifically for the nearing Christmas festivities. It wasn’t the best since they were short on cinnamon for a good two weeks, but it was good enough to drink and definitely good enough for the majority of the people here.

 

Voices had vibrated through the wooden floor. Too quiet to understand what they were saying but loud enough to hear the threatening tone in it.

Not immediately of course.

It must have started smooth, controlled and elegant as always, ‘cause this was how Floyd liked it. This was his way and his style. It had brought him to where he was today. Kept him at the top, high enough for most of the crows not even trying to reach him.

But then something changed.

The murmuring under Arthurs feed turned to grunting.

Voices rose up.

Something that sounded like rushed commands.

Arthur only noticed how hard he tried to figure out what was going on, when his ear touched the old planks. It was still nothing but a blurred soup of sounds, but he could feel that something had gone wrong. He always had a good sense for trouble.

 

The voices went even louder. And- there! Was that Floyds?

Suddenly there was the harsh crack of wood. Heavy steps of feet.

A bang.

No.

A backfire?

Or a bang?

Did it matter? Someone shot! And it _better_ be Floyd. It had to be Floyd! Who else should it be?! What should he do if-!

Arthur suddenly pulled his left hand from the ground with a distressed sound.

There was blood at his finger tips. It ran slowly and thick from his broken nail beds down to his wrist.

Another bang brought his eyes back to the opaque planks.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

His mind ran on high speed. Began to collect data, calculated. Who was down there with Floyd? When he hadn’t overseen one in the shadows of the entry court, their _guests_ must be merely four.

Who was still there of their own people?

Jimmy! Jimmy was there! And Ray. What about Bill? Wasn’t he somewhere in the storage rooms? He _must have_ heard the shots too, right? Right?!

Constant chaotic noise and shouting echoed from below.

 

A third shot.

Arthur felt his guts cramping and his head aching with adrenalin and too much dopamine. His senses felt hypersensitive. Every little movement from downstairs seemed to be caught by his ears. The rumbling. The scratching over wood. The snarls and hisses. Warnings. Groans. More shots.

Arthur’s instinct led him to the window. The door was no use. It let directly to behind Floyd’s desk. Not the way Arthur should take. He knew the code. Knew what he was supposed to do in case of emergencies; Stay hidden, search for an escape and get help.

It wasn’t the first incident he witnessed, but the first he felt more cold anger in him than naked fear.

He wasn’t a kid anymore (despite his scrawny figure).

He knew the odds of lives being changed and erased within mere seconds.

He knew how to calculate the time he needed to find the boys in a tavern in town (if at all) and the time tempers needed to calm or explode.

He knew that chances rarely comply the fifty fifty rule.

He knew that the only real chance was the one one created for himself.

The time to run had passed.

 

Arthur opened the window, certain no one would notice the mild screech under all the chaos.

Legs first, he slowly let himself down the frame and along the house wall. He tried to make his landing on the porch as soundless as possible. Only he had forgotten about the moist.

Arthur slipped. Almost landed hard on the ground if he hadn’t gripped the trestle in time.

Cold touched his fingers and melted immediately to give way for the next flake.

The first snow of the year.

 

Like all porch stairs those ones were hollow too. With the only difference that they hid a secret. A safety net. Arthur still remembered how Floyd had installed the little, invisible door within the old planks. He had been still small enough to fit along the stored away weapons if he had wanted to.

Dust flew into his face when he cracked the wood open.

Surprisingly few guns were left, but he didn’t need more than one.

Just one and he prayed to god that it wasn’t as neglected as the dust on its grip let one assume.

This needed to function.

 

First rays of moon light fell blue-white at his back. They had no soothing warmth to offer, no strength. But a cool promise that he was not alone.

Arthur breathed in deep, once, twice. Kept his dark eyes fixed at the old wooden door.

He could barely hear the furore behind it over the rush of blood in his own ears. This noisy streaming of adrenalin and oxygen. The hard hammering of his heart against his chest.

And then everything went quiet.

He threw open the door, quickly led his hand back to the shotgun he had taken and took the first foreigner into sight. The annoyed anger on his face barely had time to unfold before it contorted into horrid confusion. An angry, dark spot spread along his chest. Rapidly growing with the air Arthur let out slowly.

Then another deep breath in.

The second foreigner was already about to aim his own gun at him. Somewhere Arthur noticed the chaos around them in the office. The turned over tables and thrown away chairs. The papers on the ground and the broken glass. The liquids slowly crawling along the boards, blood stains poorly get washed out by them.

The second shot echoed more brutal than the first in his muscles and bones. The backslash made his skin sizzle and his fingers itch.

_Down boy! Down!_

Arthur instinctively let his body slop to the ground and rolled awkwardly to the side behind one of the thrown over chairs. That had been Ray’s voice. He couldn’t see him, but he was there. And Floyd? Where was he? Was he okay?

He badly wanted to look around, say out his name. But this wasn’t the time. His adrenalin kept him focused. Staring down at his bleeding fingers instead of risking his own head by peaking. Tiny drops kept falling to the floor. Painting it darker and darker.

Breath out.

 

_Who the fuck is this kid?!_

An unknown voice groaned, filled up with fury and a hint of what Arthur liked to be fear.

One shot, two shots, three shots went through the room. Then a second of silence and two more shots from the other side of the room. He could feel the heat of one bullet brushing dangerously near along his head.

_Fuck!_

_I cannot stop the bleeding!_

_Why is the boy here?!_

A mix of voices. One big pile. No specific person.

Arthur only noticed that he clenched his teeth when he felt pain jolting from his jaw.

He must be moving again because the pile spoke up again _Stay put, dammit!_ , but he didn’t react. His blood was pushing him forward again. Forced him to turn around and lay the shotgun neatly over the edge of the turned chair. It took a mere second to spot the third man angry snarling at him and rearranging his colt too.

 _I am the only son, asshole!_ Arthur hissed back and pulled the trigger for a third time.

The following two bangs were almost synchronised. Yet, the moment he had felt the bullets leaving the muzzle, Arthur had let his body go limp and sack back to the boards.

The single bullet went straight through the wood.

The pellets straight through flesh.

A choking sound broke through the air, then finally silence.

 

Arthur could suddenly feel how sweat made his eyes burn.

He rubbed disquietingly over them, yet felt more wetness streaking along his skin.

He had forgotten about his fingers. The blood still hadn’t stopped.

_Fuck, kid- Are you alright?!_

Arthur blinked, let his tunnel vision widen slowly to the full width and looked up into Jimmy’s weirdly disturbing, worried face.

 _Yes._ Arthur replied after a few seconds. When Jimmy reached for his face, he knew what the source of his anxiety was and brushed his stained hands away. _It’s okay. I’m fine. What about Floyd?_

He let Jimmy help him up into a sitting position, but stiffened immediately when a reply stayed absence.

_Where is Floyd?_

_I-..We-_

_Someone get a Doc!_

 

*

 

His mum hasn’t spoken a single word to him since she arrived at Floyd’s house.

Only had thrown him an indefinable, weird glance, before she had taken place next to Floyd’s bed and only left it to change the cooling, wet towel at his forehead.

Arthur understood.

At least he thought he did.

He himself hadn’t left his post next to the door except for a quick wee.

It was an odd sight.

A numbing sight.

Floyd laying motionless in bed, his chest and left arm all wrapped up in bandages (the whiteness already stained again) and his mum equally motionless at her chair, staring blankly at Floyd and holding his limp hand.

Was this how the death of his father had looked?

 

But Floyd wasn’t dying. He would be fine. The doctor promised and Arthur trusted this man. All of the men trusted him.

Floyd wasn’t supposed to die. Not now.

He was a local legend. He must be invincible too.

Like the Bondurant’s.  
Like-

 

A knock.

Soft and uncertain but there.

It took a few seconds for Arthur to react. To fully realize that it wasn’t all in his head.

He turned to open the door, had expected it to be one of the guys. Or maybe the Doc again.

He hadn’t expected it to be Forrest Bondurant.

In any other situation his heart would’ve probably dropped right down into the cellar, but he was too worn out by know to feel much at all.

Forrest took his form in. Weighing up.

_Should I go?_

_No. It’s... it’s..._

Arthur sighed quietly. He didn’t know what it was.

He only knew that he had this ugly ball of guilt inside his guts, feeding him with anger and confusion.

His fist clenched and unclenched. His shoulders tense enough hit cut bricks.

Without another word he was carefully pushing himself past Forrest, throwing a last look to his mum. Still no reaction. From neither of the two.

 

Arthur walked down a few steps along the floor towards the window at the end. It was closed but he could still feel a cold breeze coming in. The soft flakes had slowly developed into a proper fall. Painting the view in white and grey.

_I heard what happened._

_Did you._ He replied toneless.

Considered steps moved along the old boards, made them barely creak despite the heavy weight they were carrying. For a second he wondered how things would’ve gone if Forrest had been there. If thing would have gone smoother. Faster. Better.

But this wasn’t his terrain. He had the station and the fields and woods around it.

The city was Floyd’s.

The business was his.

The rules were his.

The risk was his.

But what was Arthur in all this?

 

Only when he felt another shadow looming over his form, dark eyes wandered away from the snow and threw a side glance at the other. He couldn’t read his face this time. Maybe because he was too tired, maybe because this expression was something he had never seen before. Had no comparison for.

The moonlight had disappeared and left them alone with the sad, orange flicker of the oil lamps.

No, not alone. The moon was still there, somewhere. It promised. It cannot just vanish, right?

... So why did he feel so forsaken?

Why did it feel like all the roads are one now, but the fog kept him from seeing which one this was?

_You know, it’s okay._

Arthur turned to face Forrest. Tracking the lines on his face. It reminded him of the day he first stitched him back together over the round table and a dirty towel.

How long was this ago?

Weeks?

Months?

Years?

Grey eyes lingered a second too long at his bandaged hands, still balled to fists at the side of his slender form.  

_You protected what is yours._

Arthur couldn’t suppress the little awkward smile that stole itself on his face. _Are you gonna say next, I’m a man now?_

_I only say you’re a protector. You care. And you dealt with a problem that got outta hand. No shame in that. You did good._

 

Arthur could feel his body stiffen immediately, the bandaged along his fingers scratching over his palms.

_I am not ashamed!_

_But angry._

Arthur hesitated, forced himself to look up into Forrest’s eyes, then nodded.

_Because of Floyd._

He nodded again.

And suddenly he was trapped in an embrace. Strong arms enclosing and holding him tight against a slowly heaving, softly cushioned chest. Almost too tight. Almost as if to break him too. Break him and put him back together. Let him grow over those new scars.

_He’s alive. Don’t set your goals too high, boy. Just... keep them near enough to touch._

Arthur’s mouth opened to give some sort of replay but in the end nothing came out of him. He ran out of words. Out of his mind space and into the big unknown. So scary and so exiting at the same time.

He sucked in a deep breath, breathing in the well known smell of the other, letting the earthy musk stream over him to sooth his nerves and eventually releasing the air slowly again.

His hands couldn’t quite find a grip in the layers of cardigan, but it was fine because he was already in a hold. And finally the dam broke and waves of exhaustion and tiredness rushed over him.

He couldn’t remember if he fell asleep there or later and was just too far gone to remember more.

But when he woke up the next morning he lay at the office couch, covered by a blanket and a mug of water next to him at the floor.

 

 

_______________

 


End file.
